Page 14 of My Unfinished Heart

He weighs and measures me with his thoughtful eyes, and then he lets me have it.

“All right. You wanna know? Because I don't mind saying it.”

I stare back at him.

He goes on. “Six years ago, you ran off to—where was it?”

“Seattle,” I concede.

“Huh. Seattle. All right. You took off after you'd practically been living at my house for a year. You disappeared without a word. Like I was one of the people in this town you couldn't wait to get away from.”

“It wasn't like that⁠—”

“You bailed. I was your friend, and you ended up doing me like you did everybody else. Like none of us gave a shit whether you lived or died.”

He wasn’t just my friend. He was my best friend. My only friend. We called each other brother because he was everything I imagined a brother should be. He was my world. “You would have tried to stop me.”

“Why would you think that?” His brows draw together like I’ve just said the world’s most unreasonable thing.

“Because I know you.”

“You’re wrong,” he says.

“Am I? You were always the one telling me everything wasn't as bad as I said it was. Like you knew what it was like.”

“I did know.”

“West, you had no fucking clue. None.”

“Yeah, brother. I did.” His words are firm and certain.

I laugh with derision. “You think so? Sorry, but you don’t know shit.” No one does. That’s the fun thing about family secrets. They don’t get out without someone breaking rank, and I know for a fact I never told a soul what that woman really did to me.

But he wants to argue about it. “I know what you told me—what my mom told me.”

“Speaking of your mom…” I down the rest of my drink and stand, fishing my keys out of my pocket. “Maybe you could ask her for me why the hell she gave my dad’s lawyer my phone number. And while you’re at it, ask her how she found it in the first place.”

West looks as dumbstruck as I was to hear about his mother’s involvement. Like I said—there are no coincidences when it comes to him and me.

“You know, for a minute it was great seeing you.” I gesture widely at the bar. “Congratulations on all your success. I hope you have an incredible life.” On those words, I make my exit, exactly like the asshole he’s convinced I am.

And I think he’s probably right about me. He always has been.

I go back to the house, but sleep doesn’t happen. What happens is I spend another night in front of the TV searching for a pattern in all this. The path. The real choice I’m supposed to make.

Around midnight I get a text from Tristan.

They moved Connor into a regular room. 505. Are you ok?

I respond. Processing. I’ll come back tomorrow to see him. Thank you.

He doesn’t text me back, and I’m guessing it’s because he saw how ugly and broken I am today, too.

The sight of my brother sitting up in his hospital bed jars me. I don’t understand the sudden constriction in my throat or the hollow ache in my chest. I assume it’s nerves or pure exhaustion. He faces me with his dark brown eyes—my mother’s eyes.

Our eyes.

His are rimmed with twin violet bruises. Swelling prevents him from opening them all the way.